Martians in Maggody

by Joan Hess

I gave everyone a moment to let that sink in, then said, “And you’re after the ETH Foundation with all its millions in donations and tax-free profits from the sale of books and related paraphernalia. The thought of missing out on your fair share bugs the hell out of you all, doesn’t it? You just can’t bear the thought of Sageman living in luxury without chipping in to ease the national debt.”

  Jules seemed to sense he wasn’t the most popular person in the clearing. “All of you pay taxes. Why should these nonprofit groups get away with using the revenue for the personal advantage of the employees?”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to kill him,” said Ruby Bee, standing on her tiptoes to glare over Harve’s shoulder.

  “I didn’t kill him. I was trying to copy the disks with the financial information that fails to show up on his tax returns. I’d be amazed if he reports half the donations. His so-called legitimate expenses are as bogus as his UFO investigations. Every time he leaves his house, our agents go in and sift through his books and files, but we never find what we need to put him in a cell with Jim Bakker.”

  Ruby Bee wasn’t convinced. “What about all your stories in the Weekly Examiner? Your name was right there on the story about how Hitler was a woman.”

  “Jules Channel is a nice man in Lantana, Florida, who never sets foot out of his office. We have an arrangement in which I use his name and credentials to gain access to the UFO investigators. I send him related stories, which he runs under his by-line. His other stories are entirely his own doing. In all honesty, I thought the Hitler-transvestite story was his best. One of these days I’ll take a vacation and buy him a drink.”

  I was a little disgruntled by his identity, having pegged him as a private eye—and having fudged on a tax return or two in the past. “We’ll run your name through your home office, but I believe that you didn’t shoot Sageman.”

  Ruby Bee emerged, although she didn’t look as if she were going to be offering Jules Channel (or whatever his name was) any lemon icebox pie anytime soon. “Then who did?” she asked.

  I wasn’t real surprised when I turned around and saw a gun pointed at me. I wasn’t real happy about it, mind you, but it’s one of the risks of the profession.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Is Lucy Fernclift your real name,” I asked, “or are you pulling the same crap as this clown?”

  “I thought it was ingenious. If I’d ever dreamed the IRS would do this sort of thing, I’d come up with another way to ingratiate myself with the ufology group. An undercover taxman? Shit, this is embarrassing.” She started to slap her hand to her forehead, then realized she’d knock herself silly and managed a self-deprecatory laugh. It was heartening to know she actually had a sense of humor—somewhere (mine was way downstream).

  Harve and the deputies were shifting nervously. Les’s hand hovered near his holster, and he appeared to be entertaining a fantasy of a medal from the mayor, a promotion from Harve, and a press conference of his very own. I imagined a bullet in my gut.

  I positioned myself in the middle of the burn marks, where I was between him and his target. “You need to put down the gun, Lucy. There are too many witnesses and too many fingerprints. You’re not very good at this, which speaks well of your character. I’ll try to help you.”

  “Help me what?” she demanded.

  “Help you get away.” I shot an enigmatic look at Harve, trusting him to decipher it, and then said, “Your car’s up there on County One-oh-two. Nobody’ll stop you from getting in it and driving away—so long as you swear here and now that Estelle’s okay.”

  “Of course she’s okay.” Lucy let the gun wobble in each of our directions, then aimed it at me with a steadiness I found disconcerting. “She was skulking around the parking lot when I came out of Sageman’s room. He was the one who deserved to be stopped. He was forcing that foolish girl to remember things that never happened.”

  “But they did,” Rosemary said. She might have intended to elaborate, but on the basis of Lucy’s reaction, she may have well have seen her life flash before her eyes. Fluttering good-bye, she moved behind a tree.

  Lucy continued to speak to me as if we were alone. “Would he ever stop to consider what would happen to the girl after he turned in his manuscript? Would he worry how she was going to handle the notoriety when she became the fashionable freak in the UFO sideshow? No, he was going to sit back, smile, autograph books, show slides, and lecture with great pomposity while he publicly humiliated her with the intimate details of her rape. Even if she committed suicide, he’d keep smiling as long as the royalty checks rolled in. I tried to reason with him, but he told me to go away so he could make notes for his next best-seller.” Trembling, she lowered the gun, but not her fierce gaze. “What could I do? You tell me. I’m listening.”

  I murmured to Harve to control his deputies, then joined her at the edge of the clearing. “Get your affairs in order. Your brother’s file contains his personal history. Since you didn’t embark on a life of crime as a mere child, you’ll be easy to trace through utility bills, credit cards, employment records, and so on. What I suggest you do is drive home and find a good ol’ boy lawyer who understands the concept of family loyalty. He should have two first names, wear pinstriped suits, and play golf with the prosecutor and poker with the judge.”

  “Now that you mention it, John Earl January settled my granddaddy’s estate last year after his own daddy was found dead in a whorehouse. He’s running for the state court of appeals, but he might find time to hear me out.”

  “Go give him a call. Nobody’s going to stop you, as long as you’re telling the truth about Estelle. Let me make it clear that if she’s not okay, I’ll turn in my badge and come after you in a fashion the Fugitive never even had nightmares about.”

  “She’s probably chewed off the duct tape and broken out of the closet by now. The last time I took the tape off her mouth to give her food, she commented loud and long on the greasiness of the chili dog and the lack of catsup for the onion rings, then offered to style my hair.” Lucy pushed back her bangs and gave me a timid smile. “What do you think about my widow’s peak? Does it make me look sexier?”

  I was trying to decide as she trotted up the trail toward the road, and I made everybody else stand there and debate the question untill I heard a car engine come to life. Sageman had been her victim, sure. She’d walked into his room, argued with him, and killed him. In the law’s view, he was unarmed. In mine, he was as dangerous as a pit bull. He hadn’t ripped any flesh off anyone, but he’d left souls ravaged. Psyches are fragile. There’s a fine line between helping someone dredge up repressed memories and creating false ones. In some cases, people get to be the subjects of best-selling books; in others, they destroy their families and themselves.

  The state police would come down on me for allowing her to escape, albeit temporarily. The irony was that I’d have to admit I was protecting Dahlia (née O’Neill) Buchanon, presuming I found her. The implications were downright terrifying.

  Kevin snuggled his face into his beloved’s breasts, luxuriating in their warmth, and said, “You were never absent from our bed. I love you too much to mistake your velvety thighs for a limp pillow. Never once have I reached for you and come up empty-handed.” He went on to describe some things he’d done when he hadn’t come up empty-handed; it was about the most romantic thing Dahlia’d ever heard, even on Donahue.

  She wiped away a tear as she tried to get more comfortable. There was no gettin’ around the dilemma; they were stuck as long as Bigfoot prowled the woods outside. Her one glimpse of him had been more than enough to send her fleeing into the outhouse, which, for the record, was one of her more regular refuges. Kevin’s abrupt arrival had liked to stop her heart, but once she figured out who it was, she’d dragged him onto her lap and kissed the sweat offen his brow (there’d been a lot).

  Bigfoot could have left. On the other hand, he could be right outside the door, his fists curled, his mouth salivating, his mind filled with
perverted ideas. And it weren’t all that unpleasant where they were, now that the rain’d quit dripping on ’em. They’d gotten used to the smell and the dim light that filtered through the knotholes, and it was kinda homey snuggling together in their little love nest.

  Kevin forced himself to stop nibbling her nipples and lift his face. “You said you had proof. Whaddya mean?”

  “I bought one of those home pregnancy kits,” Dahlia said, blushing like a bride. “You pee on a strip of paper and wait to see what color it turns. It turned blue.”

  “We’re having a boy?” Kevin came near falling on the floor as images flooded his mind: hunting, fishing, scaling fish, gutting squirrels, man-to-man talks about the birds and the bees. A boy, he sang to himself, lost in the image of a little Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon, Jr.

  “It just meant I’m pregnant,” Dahlia said, although images were no slower to flood her mind: pink foam hair rollers, pinafores and patent leather shoes, ruffly curtains, hair bows, soap operas, woman-to-woman talks about how to please a husband. A girl, she sang to herself as she cradled Kevin in her arms and leaned back.

  It wasn’t long before both of them forgot all about what evil lurked beyond the outhouse door.

  Putting the metal to the pedal, Brother Verber sped past the Pot o’ Gold Mobile Home Park and squealed around the corner onto the highway without even looking to see what was coming. Paper cups and old church bulletins flew out the window, but he didn’t pay any mind. His face was red, and sweat was coursing down his face till it liked to blind him. His breathing was so shallow he was close to passing out. Sprawled across the backseat, Sister Barbara already had.

  “Get outta the way, you sumbitch!” he bellowed at a figure hesitating out in front of the barbershop. The inadvertent profanity jarred him out of his frenzy, and he braked momentarily to add, “And God bless you, Brother Perkins.”

  He passed two or three more cars, then turned into the parking lot in front of the PD and slammed on the brakes. Arly’s car was nowhere to be seen, but he could at least use her telephone to call for medical help and her radio to alert the sheriff. He jumped out of the car, squeezed by a white van, and hurried around to the other side to open the back door. Sister Barbara had slid to the floor sometime during the ride, and it took some tugging and struggling to get her limp body back on the seat.

  “You’re safe now,” he comforted her between gasps. “I rescued you and you’re safe.”

  “Rescued her from what?” asked a woman by the van.

  Brother Verber scooted Sister Barbara’s legs together and tried to figure out the best way to gather her up so he could carry her into the PD. “It was awful,” he said without glancing over his shoulder. “Saintly Sister Buchanon was in terrible trouble. Look for yourself how her clothes’re all muddy and her hair’s tangled with leaves and twigs. Her bare feet are cold as a banker’s heart.” He bent way forward, wiggled his arm under her waist, and attempted to hoist her up. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard something pop in his back. Easing her back down, he studied the situation in hopes of a better idea.

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was taken hostage by one of Satan’s underlings. The ordeal was so horrifying that she’s gone into shock.” Brother Verber bent her knees and tried to turn her around so he could get a grip on her shoulders. “Speak to me, Sister Barbara,” he pleaded as he rethought the idea, having gotten her jammed against the front seat. She groaned obligingly.

  He finally got her knees free, raced around to the other side, and opened that door. Offering a silent prayer of apology, he slid his arms under hers and entwined his hands over her bosom. He’d got her halfway out when the pesky woman interrupted him for the third time.

  “And who are you?” she asked in a smarmy voice.

  “Brother Willard Verber, pastor of the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall. This is Barbara Ann Buchanon Buchanon, the mayor’s wife.” All the while he was talking, he was pulling Sister Barbara’s body along the seat. “And president of the Missionary Society for three years running,” he added as he straightened up and hung on to her for dear life, having not suspected how heavy she was.

  “Can you tell us exactly what happened that has left this woman unconscious? Who was her assailant? How long did the ordeal last? Were you the only one to rescue her, or are others on their way here right now?”

  Brother Verber caught his breath and turned around to tell the woman to mind her own business. The last thing he expected was to find himself staring into a television camera. And the woman—why, she was the reporter who’d been up at Raz’s shack when the crop circles appeared.

  “Was she sexually assaulted?” she asked.

  “I don’t know for sure,” he said, confused. “She said he’d grabbed her and took her to his cave. It was all squalid and wet. When the moon came out, she could make out bones scattered on the floor. He laid her on a smelly blanket and hunkered down to watch her all night. This morning he disappeared into the woods, even though it was pouring rain. At first she was too scared to move a muscle, but after a while, when he didn’t come back, she crept out of the cave and stumbled down the ridge.” He smiled modestly, wishing he had a free hand to smooth down his hair instead of having them clamped on Sister Barbara’s honeydews. “I found her and carried her the rest of the way to my car.”

  The woman frowned, although not enough to wrinkle her forehead. Behind her, the camera whirred steadily. “Who did this too unspeakably vile thing to Barbara Ann Buchanon Buchanon, the wife of the major of Maggody and one of its leading citizens?”

  “Bigfoot,” said Brother Verber, surprised he hadn’t already said as much. He was going to launch into a more precise description of his heroic rescue when an elbow poked him in his belly with so much force that the air whooshed out of his lungs.

  “You fool!” snapped saintly Sister Barbara.

  Earl Buchanon stood at his bedroom window, tugging at the waistband of his boxers and frowning. What in hell’s name was Eilene doing out there in the field in the middle of the night? Sure, it was warm, but that didn’t explain what she was doing just standing out there in the alfalfa, her face lifted like she was a kid catching snowflakes on her tongue.

  He thought real hard about going out there to order her to stop her foolishness and come back to bed. There was something about her expression that made him uneasy, though.

  He reminded himself of the Rotary club prayer breakfast at seven and the appointment at the bank afterward. Refinancing the acreage along the creek had to be a sight more important than his wife’s craziness out there in the moonlight. Hell, he was secretary of Rotary this year; the meeting couldn’t get under way till he read the minutes. He climbed back in bed, pulled a pillow over his head, and within a minute was sound asleep.

  I put down my fork and sighed contentedly. “There’s something magical about your lemon icebox pie. It’s the only conceivable reason for anyone to travel across the galaxy to come to Maggody.” I was laying it on thick, but there was one last piece in the pan.

  “I use real lemons,” Estelle said from her stool at the end of the bar.

  “And I don’t, Mrs. Fannie Flagg?” Ruby Bee went into the kitchen.

  “Then why were you buying bottled lemon juice at the SuperSaver last week?” Estelle said, although not loudly enough to be heard over the racket from the jukebox or, more significantly, through the kitchen doors. “I’m still feeling a little peaked,” she said to me. “I’ve never been bulky like your mother, and I have a very delicate digestive system. Those chili dogs gave me terrible heartburn, not to mention gas. There I was, my hands and ankles taped together, tape over my mouth so I could hardly breathe, having to kick the door when I needed to use the bathroom, and—”

  “We’ve heard this story a million times,” Ruby Bee said as she came back through the door and took a plate of ham and beans to a customer at the far end. “We’ve heard it so many times I can recite it in my sleep. Lucy Fernclift
didn’t hurt you any more than she had to while she tried to figure out what to do. She could have gotten in her car and upped and left town. You’d have been a skeleton before Arly found you.”

  “Wait a minute,” I protested. “I had to confirm Lucy’s true identity before I confronted her. She did have a gun, you know.”

  “I knew that all along,” Ruby Bee said, then clapped her hand over her mouth and gave Estelle the wide-eyed look of a frog confronting a gig.

  “You did?” I said, wishing I had one. I reached for my fork, but it was snatched away at the last second.

  Estelle arched her eyebrows. “We just happened to see it when we cleaned the rooms the other morning. I was going to tell you, but I didn’t have a chance because I was kidnapped and locked in a closet and subjected to atrocities. It may have slipped Ruby Bee’s mind.”

  “I was distracted by the murders and reports of Bigfoot,” she said as she discovered a whole new reason to go back in the kitchen, leaving me to glare at the swinging doors. She returned to drop an order pad in the drawer beneath the cash register, then came back to her customary station by the beer taps and said, “Did you ever find Cynthia’s purse?”

  “It was in the trunk,” I said, “and covered with McMasterson’s and Sageman’s fingerprints. I took it to her at the hospital last week. She wasn’t nearly as thrilled as the ladies in billing.”

  “She got her Indians wrong,” Estelle announced.

  “Her Indians?” I said. I could see from Ruby Bee’s expression that she wasn’t doing any better than I was. “In the hospital?”

  “In her past life. She told us she was an Apache warrior who scalped Custer, but I looked it up in my encyclopedia. It was the Sioux what scalped Custer.”

  “Oh,” I said, but only because something was expected of me.

  Ruby Bee was more willing to pursue it. “What about her being a Viking with a red beard?”

  Estelle patted her own indisputably red hair. “Only if she could buy Clairol back then.”